So This Was What She Meant
by Stef-chan
Summary: COMPLETED - Mirai Trunks's stay with Vegeta has not always been a happy sappy father-son moment. There were rough times, and through these rough times, Trunks learned something very important.


SO THIS WAS WHAT SHE MEANT  
DBZ © Akira Toriyama, Bird Studios, etc.  
FanFiction © Stef-chan

* * *

So this was what she meant…

How was I to know that I'd end up hating the man? He's so selfish. So cold. So hateful. "That's just the way he is," mom had told me, and she'd go on by saying that such qualities are_ impossible_ and _incapable _of change. "I just dealt with it, for what else was there to do?"

* * *

_"Go to bed," Vegeta snapped, narrowing his eyes despite the fact that he was not looking in his direction. He was, instead, staring at his own reflection in the mirror as he wiped his washed face with a clean, crisp towel. "It's bad enough you wake up at such an ungodly hour like Bul-ma, so you could at least attempt to sleep early. We have vigorous training to do. Your incapability of keeping up has caused us to waste an entire month."_

_Mirai Trunks turned away and the hand that was supporting his head beneath the white pillow grabbed the pillowcase in a clench that was unwilling to unfold. He tried to direct his attention at something else, and succeeded when his eyes caught the large hourglass that continued to drip its bits of sand. It had only been a month. There were eleven more to go before the year was up and he could leave this disturbingly empty, depressing room._

_Until then, he was trapped—trapped with a man he once wanted to meet more than anyone, but now had no other intentions but to stay a good distance away from. _

* * *

I don't recall anymore why I ever wanted to meet him. Despite the fact that there are two monstrous creatures causing havoc across the planet, my life in the future with my mother is a perfect one. My caring mother spends so much of her time and effort supporting and nurturing me with everything she's capable of giving.

But I realize now just how idiotically blind I was when I had failed to notice what I had been blessed with. Half the time my mother cared for me, I was busy wishing for a father and a male role model, especially during those times when Gohan would enthusiastically tell me stories about the great and powerful Son Gokou. I always believed my own father to be a man like the almighty Gokou. They were both Saiyans, weren't they? Saiyans with capabilities of becoming great fighters? And they are both fathers of sons with half-human blood…?

What makes Vegeta so different from Gokou, anyway?

In my eyes and mind for so many years, my father had been Son Gokou, no matter how many times mom would sarcastically laugh and assure me that the two were very much black and white, night and day, and dark and light.

* * *

_Trunks naturally responded to the sound of his father doing his nightly push-ups by stiffening his entire form. Both he and Vegeta knew that they had not wasted the _entire _month, for all they had done in the past few weeks had been an endless cycle of training, fighting, and working out. He knew the lost of time was not what was aggravating his father, but rather the brewing emotions of spite and jealousy. Ever since their eyes had first met, it had never been a father-son relationship, but one of rival-versus-rival. _

_Trunks meant competition, and competition meant work, and work meant a relationship that relied solely upon profession. There remained no touchy-touchy feelings or concern about each other's welfare in the weak, unstable bond that they shared. Everything to Vegeta was targeted at one thing only: Strength. Strength to overcome "Kakarot", strength to overcome "the boy", and strength to defeat "Cell" and prove to them all what the great _Saiya-jin no Ouji_ was capable of._

_But was that really all that either of them was meant for? Strength?_

_Mirai Trunks closed his eyes shut, not being able to bear the sight of the tawny grains of the hourglass slipping through the narrow opening. Staring only forced him into a discouraging reminder that he would be staying in the cursed room with his father for that much longer. _

_God, he needed sleep. Only in his slumber could he escape reality._

* * *

I easily recall the first time I went back in time to warn Gokou about the androids and to give him the antidote that would save his life from his contracted heart virus. I remember, without any hindrances at all, when I first laid my eyes upon my father. He's just the way I always imagined him to be. Every distinct chiseled feature of his face, those dark brows, the black hair above the enlarged widow's peak, the sneer, the smirk… Of course, I had always fantasized him wearing clothes that were a little more dignified than the pink shirt and the yellow pants, but I hadn't cared.

He was my father. That was all that mattered.

I easily recall the first words he said to me. I had blushed about it then, but I scrunch up my face and grimace when I think about it now. It was about my capability of transforming into a Super Saiyan, a feat that I had reached when my best friend and sensei _died_ a brutal death by the hands of an android; a feat that Vegeta had yet to surpass. (…And I wonder, if it had taken the death of a loved one for me to trigger that incredible power, then just how exactly did _he_ reach it? What does he love more than his pride? …Or is that it…?)

I can easily recall the moment when I told everyone about the arrival of Son Gokou, and thinking back, I recall the feeling of overwhelming joy. Anyone could be a witness to my enthusiasm then. They saw how I smiled, how I laughed, how I had willingly offered them something to drink, and how I had blushed when Younger-Mom said I was cute… It was like revisiting a non-existent memory.

But despite all this, despite seeing all of these dead legends living and walking, despite seeing my fair mother without the wrinkles of stress and troubles, and despite seeing my honorable friend again in his youth, my attention had only been drawn to my father, who had secluded himself from everyone.

Always the loner.

I easily recall the moments when he glanced at me as we waited for Gokou's arrival, but more than curiosity about_ who_ I was, he had been more curious about _how_ I had obtained the Super Saiyan level. How would he have responded if I had told him that I was his son? Would it have been the "I'm proud of you, son!" remark? Or would it be, "How the hell is it possible for my own _offspring_ to be stronger than me?!"

Anyone who knows the Prince of Saiyans knows the answer to _that_ one.

* * *

_"Get up, boy!" Vegeta growled, eyeing the hourglass in agitation. He wasted two minutes of his day trying to wake the boy up and he did not appreciate the loss of a single second at all, much less two minutes._

_Trunks groaned sleepily, but sat up immediately before Vegeta would decide to follow through with the brasher route and literally kick him out of bed. It never hurt, of course, but when his body hit the floor with a thump, it woke him up with his brain rattling inside his head. It had happened enough times for him to get the picture that when Vegeta meant "wake up", it meant _wake up_. No exceptions._

_"Be prepared for a warm-up spar before breakfast," he said stiffly before heading out. _

_It was a silent, indirect instruction that Trunks had only fifteen minutes to take a brief shower, brush his teeth, and clothe himself. But being an obedient son, no matter how brash or strict his father seemed to be, Trunks obeyed without complaint and attempted to meet his father's punctilious standards. It was the only way for them to get through the day without a word being shared between them, which always gave relief to the young man since every time Vegeta opened his mouth, his words were either a criticism or a sarcastic remark._

_And when those remarks were present, it often became quite clear that silence was good._

* * *

The silence drives me mad sometimes.

Though I prefer silence over his criticizing (for whenever he criticizes, it always seems to hit me in the gut much harder than any punch or kick), I can't help but wonder what it would be like if, for once, Vegeta would admit his defeat and say something paternal to me. It only takes two syllables; two words: "Good job."

I feel like I am composed of plastic that's become much too worn out. Every movement is stiff and difficult, and that's probably because of the daily twenty-four hours (minus sleep and the three meals) of constant training and preparing. Never once did we have a day of rest, for in father's opinion, rest is a waste of time.

"You want to save the world, don't you?" he'd say sarcastically before punching me, and to get on his good side, I wouldn't even attempt to evade the attack. "Then you've got to keep working. Tell me, boy, where's your pride and honor?"

Pride and honor. Feh. Sometimes, I think that he considers me as an experiment. He tries to drive my patience to the very edge, poking me with a stick as if I'm some kind of a lab animal to see exactly how far I could go and just how hard he would have to work to surpass me, for surpassing me meant becoming a step closer to surpassing Gokou. He observes me in the way a scientist observes his lab rats. He watches when I eat, checking to see if I have a special diet that enhances my strength; he watches when I train to see if there is a technique that he has not accomplished; he even watches my sleep, I know, for I can always feel his eyes upon me.

I sigh. So this was what she meant, when she said that he had his pride and honor. It was what Mom meant when she said softly that he was a loner. This was what she meant when she told me sternly that I should never expect too much from him and that I should not count on him as a father, but, at most, a companion. Vegeta is incapable of anything closer than mild companionship. But do I even have _that?_

I step into the bathtub and bite back a groan as darts of hot water begin to beat against my face.

Whatever. After I rid this planet of that Cell and that leftover android, I'm going to go home and never turn back to look at him again.

* * *

_Time seemed to drone on forever, never beginning, never ending, but always remaining in the very same second. It drove Trunks crazy sometimes and, granted, if he had not been so determined to save the world from falling into the fate of his own timeline, he would have gone crazy. For the next several months, he withheld the dull, monotonous schedule of training, eating, training, sleeping, and training, and worked to his fullest out of his own good heart._

_His relationship with his father never changed even as the two had stepped out of the Room of Spirit and Time. If there ever was a detached distance between them, it had been at that moment, and the feeling prevailed even after the humiliating fight against Cell after Vegeta allowed the cybourg to reach his perfect form. The detachment was still there when Trunks had been standing amongst the Z-Senshi in a tournament that was to determine the fate of the world. The frail bond was still in tact even as Son Gokou performed the selfless act of suicide in order to save all of their lives._

_And it remained that way until the very end when, while standing behind all of the fighters present, Cell reappeared unharmed by Gokou's sacrifice and sought revenge by taking Trunks's life. He was not informed of the victor of the Cell Games until a lot later when he was revived, but even more important, he did not learn of his father's berserk behavior soon after his death until Yamcha graciously informed him._

_Trunks had doubted Yamcha's words almost immediately, and he remained doubtful until a few hours later when he was safely sheltered under the roof of Capsule Corporations._

* * *

I kick off the gold-tipped white boots that are becoming much too hot and stuffy for my taste and I remove the armor off of my chest and undress out of the blue spandex-like fighting suit. I toss it all to the ground and quickly step into the shower to wash myself of the sticky sweat and foul aroma that had not dissipated even after I died and was revived back to life.

Younger-Mom instructed that I take a shower and dress for dinner, which she personally had prepared as soon as it had been announced that Cell was defeated, destroyed, and out of everyone's hair. If she's anything like the Bulma Briefs that I know, then I'm highly prepared for some rubber-tasting chicken, tar-like soup, and rice that's either mushy from being over-cooked or so hard that you just may mistake it for rocks. She has a talent when it comes to cooking all right, for there is no one else in the world that is capable of preparing food the way she does.

And I love her because of it.

Not wanting to keep Younger-Mom waiting, I make sure that the shower doesn't take too long. In less than half an hour, I'm out of the stall and back inside my room, where I dress myself back into my more familiar outfit—well, minus the Capsule Corp jacket, anyway. I walk towards the door to leave the room, but stop once I pass the pile of clothes that I had worn during battle. My eyes divert to the large, gaping hole that's incised in my armor and I stiffen in automatic response.

If I am to take anything from this timeline back to my own, it will most definitely be that armor.

I clearly remember the pain that had drilled through my chest, and I will never forget the excruciating feeling even if I live a hundred lives over again. I have been severely injured before, but previous injuries were nothing in comparison to the pain I had experienced at that moment. It was like fire driving into my body and its ceaseless flames had burned until it was all that I could feel; all that I could think about. Death, itself, seemed painless in comparison to the attack that incinerated my skin and flesh.

The funny thing, though, is that right before I saw this blinding white light before my eyes, the last that I saw was Vegeta and a puzzling expression on his face. Even after death—and even in this very moment—I wonder about that expression, for it was a look that I have never seen on his face before. It was one of surprise. Of fury. Of remorse. Of shock. Of disgust, even. It was so many things rolled into one that I still wish I could have had another chance to analyze his countenance.

I suppose I'll never receive that chance again, because I know deep down inside that he will never make that kind of look in front of me again.

"Trunks, hurry up and sit down, will ya?" I hear mother say, and I visibly shake my head to snap myself out of my thoughts, only to find myself standing before the table. I guess I was so busy thinking that I never noticed I had reflexively walked out of my room and to the kitchen. Imagine that. Must be hungrier than I thought.

Younger-Mom smiles at me and I sit down and smile back at her, purposely ignoring my father, who's sitting across from me with a steady, observing gaze.

* * *

_Amidst Bulma's lively chattering about her relief of the Earth's safety, there pursued a silence that blanketed over the dinner table in its awkward quietness. Eyes were solely diverted to their food and no words were shared between them. Trunks, especially, seemed concentrated on his food, and he was so oddly silent that it compelled Bulma to notice the awkwardness._

_"Trunks?" she questioned, and she watched as Trunks's head slowly lifted up and those blue eyes looked back at her own. "I would think that after having Cell and the androids defeated, everyone would be throwing confetti everywhere and popping up champagne bottles. Is something troubling you?"_

_Trunks swallowed hard and finally glanced at his father, who, surprisingly, was not digging into his meal like his normal, Saiyan self. He, instead, seemed to be picking at the contents on his plate as if the word "hungry" was lost on him. The Saiyan's concentration seemed to be more placed upon the young man sitting across from him, and the two were looking at each other tentatively._

_"Yamcha told me what happened after I died."_

_Something in Vegeta's eyes moved a fraction of a millimeter._

_"Yamcha told me," Trunks pursued, ignoring his mother's clueless, questioning looks. "I don't know what to believe, actually."_

_No other words were spoken during dinner and even Bulma seemed to understand that spoken words were best to be saved for later when the tension would dissipate. Trunks never expected Vegeta to comment—silence was something he definitely presumed, which was why he was startled when suddenly, Vegeta abruptly rose from his seat and walked away from his unfinished plate._

_The dark, cold prince of Saiyans, the one who always spoke with either sarcasm or bitter intensity, finally lowered his barrier and spoke in a tone that had never been heard in the ears of the demi-Saiyan. He, the proud, complicating man who would rather die than reveal his deepest thoughts, opened up a fraction way and looked hard at Trunks with eyes that revealed much more than words ever could._

_"You may be a nuisance, boy, but you are still my son." He paused. "Do not forget that."_

_Those were the last words spoken between them before Trunks departed from that timeline. For the first time since his first arrival to his past, he had a smile on his face that was real, and that smile remained on his face for several days even after the menaces on his timeline were demolished. They were there and rekindled with confused memories as he touched the gaping hole in his fighter's armor. And they were there for his mother to see as she stood beside him while looking at are son's face._

_"I have never seen you so content before," Mirai Bulma said, placing her old, delicate hands onto his strong, muscled arm with maternal love and pride. She touched her son's cheek and pulled his face in her direction in order to get him to stop staring at the armor. "I don't think you've told me everything that went on in that other timeline. Tell me, kiddo, what is it that's changed you?"_

* * *

My father's last words.

My mother and I sit ourselves down and over a cup of tea, I tell her not about the androids or the Z-senshi or Cell or any of that mess, but rather the real highlight of my trip to the past: my father. I tell her everything that I had felt around his presence, from my frustration, to my anger, to my bitterness, to my hatred, to my depression, and then finally, to my confusion. I tell her about Yamcha's words—I've told her before, but I tell her again—and I tell her about Vegeta's last words to me.

And as I speak to her about this, and as she listens carefully with this strange, knowing glint in her eyes, I reflect all of this upon myself.

For over a year (and this is including my year inside the Room of Spirit and Time), I believed that Vegeta hadn't cared. He didn't care about me, or of mom, or of Earth, or anything, for that matter, except for his pride. And his honor. His pride and honor. How many times have he said those words aloud to me? How many times have he insisted that it was all that he had and all that he cared for? How many times did he risk everything just for the sake of his pride? Of his honor?

Pride and honor.

Those two words were what drove me mad with insanity. And it was because of those words that I believed he didn't care that I was his son. I will never ever forget the madness I had felt because of his incapability of opening up to me as a father. I will never forget it, and because I never will, his last words confuse me even to this very moment.

_"You may be a nuisance, boy, but you are still my son. Do not forget that."_

Okay, so maybe they're not exactly the touchy-feely words I wanted from my father, and they, above all, do not leave warm and fuzzy feelings inside. But the words _do_ mean something to me, and that something is the confirmation that he recognizes me as his son and that he accepts me as one. And that is, really, all I had ever asked of him.

…Kami, what a mental and emotional roller coaster ride.

"I always knew he was proud of you," mother says, and I shoot her a dumbfounded look. …What is she talking about? "I knew it, even though he only spent just a few days with you before he was killed by the androids."

"What are you talking about?" I ask, my voice unintentionally and inconsiderably loud. To say that she knew this all along baffles me, because it definitely does _not_ coincide with what she told me in the past. "Vegeta was the most difficult person I've ever associated with in my entire life. You always said that he didn't care for anything but his pride."

And then there is a moment of silence as she refills my cup.

"But Trunks… What does Vegeta consider his pride? What is it about his miserable life that he could possibly honor?"

I furrow my eyebrows and stare at my cup of tea in full concentration. I think long and hard, and my mother sits there patiently, waiting for the imaginary light bulb on top of my head to light up. And I re-reflect everything that my father has done and said to me. I think about his past, of all the troubles mom told me he went through. I think about his position and rank as prince of a dead empire. I think about his rejuvenating life on Earth and of the people in it and of the people who accepted him and of the people who, whether by choice or by accident, became his family.

And I think about mom and I think about me. I think about Yamcha's testimony of my father's strange behavior after my death, and I think about the words he spoke to me. And it finally dawns upon me that Vegeta's pride and honor lies in what he has found and what has found him. His pride and honor, he claims, was all that he had. His pride and honor is, quite frankly, my mom. And me.

…So this was what she meant.

* * *

**The End**

* * *


End file.
